Dead Man Walking
by barefootbean
Summary: FE9, Greil and Elena. He was losing it all. Ooooold fic.


**(A/N): ****The idea for this fic actually popped into my head during school today, and the first thing I did when I got home was type it up. Basically, what I wanted to accomplish with this, was get Greil's pain across to the reader. Make it believable, I suppose (I really just wanted to reenact Elena's death- with stuff added, of course). I wrote this quite a bit differently than I usually do, so it's got a bit of an unusual style to it, I suppose. It's kind of jumpy and shaky to me, but It may just be because I've been working on this for several hours straight... I've got some mixed feelings about it; I don't know whether I like it or want to trash it. :3 It was inspired by the song 'Dead Man Walking' by The Script. For some reason, all of their music pretty much fits these two characters perfectly to me. I recommend listening to the song before/while reading this. Why? Because I think it would 'enhance the reading experience.' I'm just screwy like that, kids. ...Anyhow, I would love some feedback on this. I'm looking to improve, so some advice and [constructive]crticism would more than likely give me some ideas on what I need to work on! I hope you enjoy this. Well, if possible (considering it's a tragedy and all...er, yeah...).**

**Dead Man Walking**

**I hear the angels talking talking talking  
>Now I'm a dead man walking walking walking<br>I hear the angels talking talking talking  
>Now I'm a dead man<strong>

**I see you standing there but you're already gone**  
><strong>I'm holding your hand but you're barely holding on<strong>  
><strong>I'm kissing your lips but it just don't feel the same<strong>  
><strong>Am I dead there now, left living with the blame<strong>  
><strong>Oh I hear the angels talking talking talking<strong>  
><strong>Now I'm a dead man walking walking walking<strong>

**-The Script (Science and Faith)**

**.  
><strong>**.  
><strong>**.**

"_I forgive you." _

Her rasping voice breezed by his ear, her breath slow and barely detectable.

"…E-el-elena…?" She slowly sank to the ground, her blood spilling out of the wound his blade had created when it pierced her breast—when she reached out to him, knowing the fatal consequences her actions would bring. He fell to his knees, the stupor from the medallion beginning to fade quickly—much too quickly.

Horror clogged his mind in a wave.

"Elena?" He tried to shout her name, scream for her, but his voice strangled halfway out. He choked and coughed, hacking up a clot of blood that he reflexively spat to the dirty streets, only then noticing the pain and the injuries that covered his body: an arrow here, a knife in the back there, his hand bloody from other sword blows. …Daein soldiers? He could feel the pain, but barely. He felt more numb then anything. He stared at his hand, denying what he already knew to be true; denying the truth that was spread out before him, the facts that screamed in painful ringing in his ears.

The medallion: he'd reached for it, to bring it to her. _To her._ He should have known better than to touch it.

What a fool he was.

He slowly reached a shaking hand out to his wife, where she lay in front of him, so still and pale as the fresh linen sheets she had only washed that morning. He grasped her hand, and fell to the ground in shock, using his elbows to drag himself across the dirty street—a foot or so; a couple inches. _There_. He laid himself parallel to her body – _no, no, nonono _-where she lay.

"Elena." It was the only word on his mind. _She,_ was the only person on his mind. How could he? Why? _Why? Goddess why?_

Her hand was so warm; he pressed it to his cheek tightly, nearly sobbing when he felt the slim fingers brush his face and tighten, offering the comfort that she couldn't speak. How much time did she have? Seconds? Minutes? Hours of suffering? He threw a strangled look at the blade that _- hideous, ugly—howcouldI? Why?Why?Why?Pleaseno,pleasetellmeI'mwrong_ - protruded from her chest.

He gasped and choked, clutching her hand so hard he was afraid he would break the bones; she was in a fragile enough stage as it was. It twitched slightly, and something soft brushed his face. Something blue. Hair? That's what that was, right? It smelled sweet, like newly burned incense. Sandalwood, he recognized. _Of course_…

"…_Shhhh…it's all right. I forgive you."_ His chest shook—he knew it wasn't from the pain of his wounds.

No, physical pain couldn't ever compare to this. _Never. It was too much to take._

"Elena! Goddess, please don't speak. Please, just lie still. You're going to be _fine_," he said softly, whispering; tears began to cloud his vision, and he blinked them away fiercely, striving to take in her features. Her hand shook softly, and he looked at her face, his eyes latching on to the slight curve of her lips; where what should have been a grimace, a small smile lingered; one of mirth.

_How like her…_

"I'm so sorry! I'm so sorry, Elena! Please, _please_, _just_—just stay here with me… Just a little while longer…a little while…don't go." Her hand shook violently as it held onto his face, tracing small circles, fiddling with his cheeks—her fingers slowly falling one by one, leaving his skin vulnerable to the gentle – _gentle? Anything but that… Let it be vicious, OhGoddessplease_ - wind that blew. He grasped it tenderly and sobbed in to it, ignoring the pain and wrapping his arms around her upper frame, sobbing worse when his hands made contact with the blade – _his_ blade, _dammit_ – that pierced her breast.

"_..ke. ist. …atch…ldren…llion…ove you…Gawain."_

He could barely catch the words they were so lightly spoken, as he had to read her lips to catch anything at all—but the heavy lids of her eyes – _blue eyes no longer blue, gray, dull,_ dying - and lips softly parting and hands slowly falling limp from his grasp was all he needed to know.

She wasn't going to make it.

Panic began to set in faster than he wanted. Things weren't supposed to be this way. _It should have been him_ laying in the puddle of blood…_not her_, _never her_. _Never, ever her…_

"Elena? Hang on… just a bit longer. Please…for just a while…at least?" He whispered into her ear, barely able to see anymore from the bloody tears that clouded his vision. He trailed gentle wet kisses along her face - nose, brow, cheeks, ears, the small freckle by her left eyelid, _lips_- holding her as close as possible as he shook—her along with him from the forces that racked his body.

"_Elena, please."_

He laid a hand over her wound, his hands instantly becoming sticky with the blood that coated her body. There was so much of it… He reached for his cloak mechanically, undoing the snap with a click and pulling it from around his shoulders. Carefully, he spread it over her body, hiding the ugly wound he had brought her. He hesitated as he brought it up to her chin, pausing.

"_Elena, this wasn't supposed to happen. What am I going to do without you?"_ he whispered.

Gently, he leaned down, and planted a farewell kiss on her lips.

It was only brief, though it served as the best goodbye he in his situation could give. Whether she was already gone or had felt it or not, he was too tired, too exhausted to distinguish the facts. He wanted to destroy the medallion that had lead to this; his fingers clenched with the desire to do so.

He closed her eyes with his hand, hiding her eyes from the dim light that shone above, before pulling up the remains of his cloak, covering her completely. Gently, he hefted her into his arms – body limp, pale, blood _everywhere_– and holding her close, ignoring the physical pain that his sudden movements brought upon him.

Carefully, he took a step, and immediately collapsed, his legs giving out from exhaustion. He hit the ground with a roaring sob of defeat, and buried his face into his wife's neck, clutching her close and taking in her scent, her presence that no longer lingered in This world, her soft features. He kissed her over and over again, kissed her until his lips ached and his eyes were swollen and the night's half crescent moon was present in the sky. He cried silently for a while afterwards in the dead street - bodies littered the ground: men, fathers, women children, _wives_ -, holding her still in his arms and rocking her—rocking her corpse.

_Corpse._

_A corpse._

Was he going mad? All ready losing his sanity? For several moments, he wished it were true. He would see her again all the faster. He could speak apologies, and she would be capable of listening.

Besides, what was left?

He was nothing but a dead man anyway. He'd killed the only woman he'd ever truly loved. What could possibly be worse than that? Was death even truly worth it in the end? Were the Elysian Fields a simple dream? Nonexistent? Unaccessible to him?

Greil wasn't sure he wanted to find out.

**.  
><strong>**.  
><strong>**.**

**I'm a breathing, talking  
>Dead man, walking<strong>

**I hear the angels talking talking talking**  
><strong>Now I'm a dead man walking walking walking<strong>  
><strong>I hear the angels talking talking talking<strong>  
><strong>Now I'm a dead man<br>Now I'm a dead man**


End file.
